Trin

by J. M. Snyder

  A crazy laugh bubbles up in him but he tamps it down quickly. With unseeing eyes he stares into the maw under the hood of Gerrick’s truck…kill the bounder indeed. And every single other person in the world, is that what it’ll take? To make sure he stays true to me. To make sure he’s mine. Trin knows that isn’t a viable answer. Blain would stop him, if no one else. The disappointment in his brother’s face would make him turn the gun on himself. What a mess.

  Gerrick’s fault, all of this. If he’d only played straight these few days, was that asking too much? Trin doesn’t think so. The gunner shared his pallet at night—why couldn’t that be enough? And he had to do it in the waystation, of all places. Like he wanted to get caught. Like that was part of the thrill. Desperate anger fills him again, how dare he? With Aissa downstairs, who must have seen Gerrick head up and knew what was coming, she tried to protect Trin from the truth. With Blain behind the bar—Trin’s own brother, who’s even now probably kicking the shit out of the gunner. With Trin himself in the garage…and he knew I was closing down out here. He hates to admit it but Gerrick must’ve known what time it was, and that Trin would be upstairs soon enough to shower. Did he want to be found? Or was he planning to get off again on Trin with the other man’s spit still hot on his dick?

  He starts to shake, rage coursing through him like the blood in his veins. He reaches out for the first thing he can grab—one of the cables attached to the truck battery—and yanks hard until it snaps off. It’s like a chain falling from his heart and tears blur his vision as he cries out, pouring all of himself into the sound. His hands slash at the cables, the belts, the hoses beneath the hood, ripping into the truck’s viscera, tearing apart all his hard work from the past two days.

  * * * *

  Fuck him.

  Trin sits curled under the workbench, squeezed into the recess with his legs hugged tight to his chest as he stares balefully at the run-gun trucks. Gerrick’s hood is still open, exposing torn wires and shredded hoses. A steady plink is the only sound in the garage, antifreeze leaking from the sliced reservoir into an iridescent puddle on the floor. He did that, and ripped the cables out, stabbed at the radiator with a pocketknife until the blade snapped in half, gouged long furrows into the air filter. Poured everything he felt out onto the truck so that he’s empty now, wasted. Yet the memory’s still there, seared into his mind like the afterimage of a bright flash of light—the bounder on his knees in the midst of warm water showering down, Gerrick’s length fucking his mouth, his hips thrusting even as he saw the curtain pull back. Trin never wants to see the gunner again, fuck that man.

  Ten minutes later he’s convinced himself he should give Gerrick a second chance. Just go on up to his pallet, listen to the gunner’s apology, and go from there. At least hear his side of things…

  Fuck him.

  His mind cycles like a choppy engine, he can almost hear it running in circles, threatening to stall. He hates the man, he doesn’t, he can’t, he should. That’s the kicker there, he should hate him, should never want to see him again, and yet he does. More than anything else, he wants those leonine eyes studying him, he wants that moustache tickling his lips, he wants to feel the apology in the gunner’s hands and mouth. He should head upstairs now—

  What if he isn’t sorry? Aissa’s voice again, he’s getting sick of it. Bad enough she has to terrorize him in person, now she haunts his head, too. Trin suspects he could tune her out if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that she’s right. Dammit the hell, but she is. What if he’s not waiting for you, then what? You hunt him down? How fucking desperate is that?

  He should leave the truck as it is, torn open and wounded, and when the gunners gather to leave in the morning, Gerrick will have to stay behind. With me, Trin thinks. The idea has merit. If he could only convince the man to love him, to love only him.

  But Blain won’t like it. His brother stopped by the garage this afternoon specifically to make sure the trucks would be ready to roll tomorrow. If he sees the damage Trin’s caused, the gunner’s indiscretion will be the least of his troubles. Much as he wants to say fuck it and blow off the repairs, to force Gerrick to stay, he can’t. He won’t. Blain won’t let him.

  With a weary sigh, Trin crawls out from under the workbench and hauls himself to his feet. He rubs his eyes with grimy hands and glances at the clock that hangs above the bay doors. An ancient beer ad lit in neon buzzes intermittently above red digital numbers. He’s surprised to see it’s late—later than he thought, almost midnight. He’s been here for hours, and suddenly his legs cramp from being folded under the workbench, his arms ache, as if just knowing how long he’s been sitting makes his body hurt. No matter—he’s not going to his room, not tonight. Let him sleep alone, Trin thinks. A small defiance but all he has. He wants desperately to believe that one night apart will be enough to make the gunner come running to him tomorrow.

  Tonight, the truck. Already he’s regretting his little fit—he knows he doesn’t have half the shit he needs to repair the hoses and cables he destroyed. Friction tape and luck, that’s all he has to rebuild with, and he knows it’s going to take all night. The thought exhausts him. This is Gerrick’s fault, too.

  A splinter of anguish shoots through him, pricking here and there before it’s gone. He can’t even get upset anymore, he’s cried out. He tries to poke at the wound the gunner tore into him and this time feels nothing but the faintest glimmer of hurt. Somehow that scares him more, like he’s dead inside. At least before the pain made him know he was still alive. Now he thinks there’s a very real chance that he isn’t, and his body is simply going through the motions until it realizes the truth. I should say screw the truck, he thinks, his mind racing, rush upstairs and forgive him. He’s in my pallet, I know he is. Let his hands prove to me that I’m still here. Let his kisses bring me life.

  But what if the gunner isn’t the only one in the pallet? What if the bounder’s there, too? What if—

  No. His breath catches in his chest as if he’s mortally wounded and there it is—his heart beat. No matter how broken, at least it’s still there. And it’ll quicken tomorrow, if Blain sees what I’ve done. Despite the sorrow filling him, the anger still puckering his soul, Trin has no desire to hear whatever it is his brother will have to say about the truck. Better to get it together tonight, even though he’s drained and listless, than to face that firing squad in the morning.

  His emotions have worn him out. He snags a roll of tape from where it rests on a peg above the back of his workbench, then shuffles over to the truck, already weary at the thought of working all night to fix the damage he’s inflicted. Why couldn’t he have settled for throwing tools around the place, or tearing through the junkyard? Why did he have to fuck up the truck? Staring beneath the hood, he blinks slowly, his eyes burning from all his tears earlier. With the back of his hand he stifles a yawn, then tears a length of tape free from the roll. The scritch it makes as it pulls free echoes in the empty garage and he shakes his head to clear it. Cables snake over each other, wires fray at the ends, hoses drip fluid to the floor like blood. Trin doesn’t even know where to begin to put this back together again.

  * * * *

  It takes all night, and when the Christ bells ring in the dawn, Trin’s still bent over beneath the hood of Gerrick’s truck, doctoring the hose that runs into the water pump. For the past six hours he’s known nothing but wires and cables, filters, pistons, clamps. His hands are so sore that the slightest touch jars the raw nerves in his fingertips. Where the tape sticks to him, he swears the skin tears off when he pulls it away. Each wire feels electrified, the way it sizzles in his over-worked hands.

  Six hours without rest, without food, without sleep—tack on the six hours before that, too, and did he stop to eat lunch this afternoon? Or yesterday afternoon, really, he can’t remember. The world keeps blurring and he has to blink it back into focus, but this time it isn’t tears softening the edges of his reality, it’s exhaustion. Last night is a dream
that may have never happened, the shower, the bounder…did he really see that? Could’ve been anyone in the shower, anyone at all. Gerrick’s probably asleep in his pallet, wondering where the hell he is, and Trin’s beginning to wonder the same thing—

  His head dips and he shakes himself awake. “Alright,” he mutters, his voice gritty and unused. Inch by inch he straightens up, stretching, his back creaking as he stands. His eyes slip closed and he wavers like a reed in the wind. He could fall here, sleep on the floor in the grease and filth, he doesn’t care. As it is he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to open his eyes again.

  One of the bay doors rattles, jarring him. Did the bells ring already? Why aren’t the doors open yet? It’s not until he’s halfway across the garage that he remembers he locked everyone else out. Last night he was upset, to put it mildly. Right now he doesn’t have the energy to work up that kind of mood.

  The padlock opens on the second try. As the door rattles up, Aissa ducks inside. “Trini, God,” she sighs in relief. The red curls that usually frame her face are pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, secured with what look like chopsticks or pencils. Beneath it, the rest of her hair hangs in long, wet waves like seaweed. All along her hairline, her strawberry birthmark is white from the severity of the bun. She gives his oily hair and dirty, naked chest a distasteful scowl and declares, “Look at you! Shit, if Blain sees you like this, he’ll kill that gunner for sure. Do you know he almost had a coronary when he checked your room this morning and found that fuckface in your pallet like it was his? Everloving hell, but he tore that ass a new one.”

  She brushes past him and Trin stands aside, confused. “I should mention I haven’t had any sleep,” he tells her. His voice is still grizzly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Gerrick?” Aissa flicks her hair over one shoulder and gives him a look that asks how could he possibly forget. Oh yes, him.

  When he doesn’t respond, Aissa touches his arm, concerned. “How are you holding up, Trini? Are you alright?”

  He laughs, a crazed sound that he bites off before it can get away from him. “Fine,” he tells her—can’t she see that? No sleep, no food, covered in oil and sweat, dizzy, upset…the injustice of it all crowds around him, he swoons despite the morning chill, and she has the gall to ask if he’s alright? Oh sweet Mary above, he thinks, the first coherent thought he’s had in hours. He tries another laugh, this one nothing more than a low chuckle that threatens to escape into giggles if he lets it. He doesn’t. “Don’t I look fine to you?”

  Frowning at him, Aissa admits, “You look like shit.”

  Yes, well, he supposes he does. Still, she doesn’t have to be so eager to point it out. “So do you,” he growls, pushing her away. “What’d Blain say this morning?”

  She follows him to the trucks. “I don’t know. I wasn’t privy to it. He closed the door—”

  “And you stood on the other side, I’m sure.” Trin tries to look amused and fails miserably. He’s too empty for much emotion at the moment. “I know you too well. Did they fight?”

  “He’s not worth it,” she says suddenly. Anger flashes in her eyes. “He dicked you over, Trin, don’t tell me you’re still interested in him after that! Blain’s right, just let him go. The trucks are done, right? The gunners can roll. Get over him already, won’t you, and just let him go.”

  As if it’s that simple. Trin goes back to work under the open hood and ignores her outburst. Maybe if he pretends she didn’t speak, she’ll stop talking. It’s never worked before, but Trin hopes there’s always a first time.

  Frustrated, Aissa leans down beside him, her arm pressing against his. “I thought you were done with these.”

  “I am,” Trin replies, defensive. Or will be soon enough, he amends silently. It’s taken all night but he thinks he’s finally managed to fix the damage he inflicted in his rage, though he should really go over the truck one last time, make sure the job’s done right. The last thing he needs is the gunner coming back pissed because he took a look under the hood and saw the flash of silver tape holding the hoses and cables in place the same way nickel fillings plug cavities. Shrugging her arm off of his, Trin tells Aissa, “Hey here’s a concept, get out of here, alright? I’m not in the mood for you today.”

  She shoves back, hard enough to shift his balance, but he catches himself on the metal rod holding up the trunk and doesn’t fall. He has a feeling if he made it to the ground, he’d never get back up. “Fuck you,” she mutters, turning away so he can’t see how much he’s upset her. “I’m just trying to be nice…”

  Trin sighs. I’m not up for this, he prays to whoever might be listening in. “Iss, look—”

  But she turns away. “Forget it.” Her hair swings down her back with the motion of her hips as she stalks off. She heads for the back door this time, holding onto the rail and stepping gingerly around the puddles of dried oil congealing on the stairs. “You’ll want to clean this mess up,” she calls out, still pissed, “before Blain sees it. And hose yourself off, while you’re at it. You stink, Trini, God knows. Your brother thinks you’re mental enough over that damn gunner as it is. You don’t have to prove him right.”

  With her leg, she nudges the empty oil barrel aside. Then she opens the door, shaking her hair back from her face as she steps outside like she’s shaking herself free from the stale air of the garage. Slowly Trin closes the hood of the truck, sits back on it, rubbing an already soiled cloth between his grimy fingers as he stares after her. She leaves the door open and he listens to the crunch of her feet over the gravel path between here and the waystation.

  He watches the cloth streak grease along his hands and knows he’ll have to apologize to get her to talk to him again. Can’t you cut me some slack here? he wants to know. I’m the one who’s supposed to be upset. I’m the one who’s been wronged. How does she turn it around so easily? How can she even imagine she’s the one hurt here? You didn’t catch Blain with one of the chore girls in the shower, did you? He should’ve thrown that at her before she stormed off, give her something to think about if she wants to get all righteous and shit with him.

  Amid the sounds of the quiet morning he listens for the slap of the screen door that leads into the kitchen. He hears it squeal open on rusted hinges, hears her curse lividly at whoever it is unfortunate enough to hold it for her, then winces when she slams it shut with so much force, the hinges cry out as it opens again. “Fucking ass,” she swears to no one in particular, but loud enough that her strident voice carries across the junkyard and into the garage. The ferocity of her anger brings the ghost of a smile to Trin’s face. Must mean me.

  Footsteps on the gravel again, this time sure and fast. Trin rolls his eyes and throws the rag at the tires stacked high along the far wall. Just what I need, he thinks as the rag falls to the floor, landing pitifully short of its goal. Can’t we take a breather here, Iss? Stop tearing at me for two minutes, please, just until I manage to get all the pieces back together again. In the morning light, the stained rag is only a shade or two lighter than the concrete floor.

  He’s about to pick it up—pushes off of the truck and bends at the waist, one arm stretching out for it—when a shadow darkens the morning sunlight. He looks up, ready to tell Aissa to take it somewhere else, he’s not fighting her today, only it isn’t her in the doorway. It’s Gerrick.

  The gunner is dressed in the same clothes he wore when Trin first saw him. Battered jeans hug his legs, gun belt around his waist, a button-down shirt unfastened halfway down his chest to expose sandy hair just beginning to grey. With the sun behind him, his eyes are dark holes in his face, Trin can’t read them. His face is draped in shadow. Trin’s mind flickers and for an instant he sees the man stripped naked, hair and skin wet with spray, the bounder between his legs to suck him down. Then he blinks and it’s only Gerrick, hands on his hips just inches above the barrels of his guns. His voice is like sour honey when he whispers, “Hey there, boy.”

  �
�My name is Trin,” he answers. He doesn’t speak loud because he doesn’t want to hear the quiver in his words, but they carry easily enough in the empty garage. “What are you doing here?”

  As if that’s an invitation, Gerrick steps into the garage, closing the door behind him. “Come to talk to you,” he says. He takes the stairs with a measured pace, boots sticking in the oil and leaving prints beside Trin’s own, barefoot and dried. Vaguely Trin thinks he should be mad at this man, shouldn’t listen to his lies, but the gunner is stealthy and Trin grows torpid from his nearness. With each step he takes, Trin’s control slips away, until he stands defenseless before him.

  This close, the gunner smells fresh and clean, a scent like new sheets on his pallet that makes Trin feel soiled and used. One of Gerrick’s eyes is swollen, red and tender, Blain’s handiwork no doubt. It’ll bruise soon enough. There’s another welt on his cheek, a thin line of blood beading across his brow, and a pink blush in one corner of his mouth where he must’ve wiped at a freshly bloodied lip. But his eyes are steady and clear, and that moustache of his tangos into a slow, self-effacing grin. “If you’ll listen,” he says softly. “I waited up for you last night.”

  Trin tries to speak and can’t. Clearing his throat, he looks at the open vee of Gerrick’s shirt and tries again. “I was…” He motions to the truck behind him, his hand falling to scratch at his elbow as he shrugs. “Busy. I was busy. Fixing your truck so you can go.”